


if i could paint you a picture

by longbottomed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, Magical Paintings, Unrequited Love, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8572906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longbottomed/pseuds/longbottomed
Summary: “I'm sure she'll like the idea,” Draco says, and to him, the words are bitter poison and sharp shards, dragging over his tongue and lips and filling his mouth with blood and bile.





	

“Potter,” Draco says and inclines his head in greeting.

Potter's smile is a fickle thing, unsure but threaded with warmth as he returns the greeting: “Malfoy.”

Draco looks away, grasping for something to says and his eyes fall on the three children, Potter's brood, crowding around his legs.

“Ah,” he says. “A family portrait, then?”

Potter chuckles, embarrassment trailing along in the sound, but not enough to cover the love that inspired it to begin with. “Yes, er—“

“Will your wife be joining us?”

“No, it's for her, a surprise,” Potter says and Draco looks up to watch him drag a hand through his hair. “For Christmas. So she can take it with her when she's travelling with the _Harpies_. ”

Draco's hand twitches where it rests on the appointment book lying open on the counter, right over Potter's name. The ink is slightly smudged, the sweeping, shaky font at odds with the immaculate handwriting that covers the rest of the page. There's a bit of black ink on the pad of Draco's forefinger.

His smile feels hollow, but Potter's brightens.

“I'm sure she'll like the idea,” Draco says, and to him, the words are bitter poison and sharp shards, dragging over his tongue and lips and filling his mouth with blood and bile.

“I hope so,” Potter says, corners of his mouth twitching, gaze flickering away and dropping to his children. “You, too, right?”

The oldest, James, huffs. He's going to Hogwarts soon, and he's all _Potter_ ; dark and unruly hair, tanned skin, green eyes—a miniature version of the Great Hero roaming the ancient halls and reminding them every day who their saviour is.

Potter shakes his head softly with the air of a father used to the moods of his prepubescent son.

“This is James,” he introduces, unnecessarily, “Albus—and Lily.”

He has to pull the girl to the front from where she's hiding behind his leg, her mother's brown eyes staring up at Draco with a mixture of careful curiosity and defiance. As much as James is his father, she's her mother; all Weasley with flaming hair and a face full of freckles. Ironically, Albus is neither. Pale skin, straight and soft-looking dark hair, a dusting of freckles on his nose and cheekbones, and bright-eyed, he looks like someone picked the defining features of his parents at random and threw them into a pot, stirred and let him emerge.

Draco nods slowly.

“Follow me, please,” he says and turns to walk into his atelier at the back of the shop, taking measured steps towards the easel and the paintbrushes lying ready on the cabinet next to it.

“Wow,” Potter says and Draco turns to see him look around the room with astonishment. One would think after all these years he's spent in their world, Potter was accustomed to undetectable extension charms and windows depicting fake scenery through which sunlight pours. Apparently not.

Draco swallows and looks out of one of the windows showing his mother's rose gardens where the red and white blossoms sway in a non-existent breeze.

“Impressive,” Potter tells him, because he doesn't know that the scenery is just a crude shadow of the real thing, could never get close to the beauty of Narcissa's handiwork. But the Manor and its gardens are a thing of the past, and Potter will never know.

“Thank you,” Draco says and turns back towards the easel and the blank canvas. “Please sit.”

He waves towards the large sofa across the easel and gets ready.

 

“It's brilliant,” Potter says with wide eyes and a soft smile. The small James in the painting rolls his eyes, Lily beams and preens as Potter's painted self chuckles with his living counterpart and Albus looks up from the book on his lap and raises a hand to wave. Potter waves back.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” Potter says and looks up, loving smile lingering on his lips. “I'm sure she'll love it.”

Draco nods stiffly. “You're welcome. Give Ginevra my regards.”

“I will,” Potter promises and wraps the painting carefully into the thick paper Draco has offered as protection against the snow and prying eyes.

“Happy Christmas, Malfoy.”

“Merry Christmas, Potter,” Draco says and watches him slip out of the door into the cold evening. He can hear passersby calling out to Potter as he tugs his woollen hat over his ears and pulls his scarf up against the harsh wind. Potter waves back and hurries off towards the Three Broomsticks and out of sight.

With a flick of his wand, Draco locks the door and turns off the lights. Then he stands there for a moment, breathing heavily in the silence while his heart pumps ice and pain through his veins.

 

“Harry,” Draco says.

“Draco.”

A smile twisting his lips, soft and welcoming and full of love, truly perfect. Draco wants to kiss this smile, feel it warm against his own lips, wants to taste and drink it in until he's drowning.

“I've missed you,” Harry says and steps closer, the dim light making shadows dance on his naked skin. It's a sight to behold and Draco's heart stutters in his chest as he reaches out to touch Harry's cheek.

“I love you,” he whispers and his breath hitches, throat convulsing around the words as if it wants to hold back this foolish sentiment.

“I know,” Harry says softly, and everything about him is glowing with his own love; his skin, his smile, his startlingly bright eyes. He looks warm and perfect to the touch, his skin so smooth and unbroken, not a single scar or blemish but for the fading lightning bolt on his forehead.

Draco longs to feel this warmth and wrap himself into it, longs to touch every inch and sink into it to never come up again—

But all he feels is cold paint and rough canvas when his shaking fingers stroke over Harry's cheek.

 


End file.
